I, Magic
by AvadaKedavra1
Summary: On the ten year anniversary since the Battle of Hogwarts, here are the words from those who led us to victory.
1. Prologue

There is a whisper of apprehension tickling the throats of every inhabitant of Wizarding Britain. Has it really been this long? Have we come this far? How did we get over the losses? Or did we? I can't believe it's been ten years since the Battle of Hogwarts. This is a monumental anniversary, one whose celebration will taste as bittersweet as the ceremony of victory we all choked down and endured only days after that momentous battle. For many, the pain that pricks our hearts still reminds us we were fortunate or unfortunate enough to survive.

I dare to speak his name. I will always dare to speak his name. I will never give him that kind of power over me ever again. Tom Riddle took my wife from me and after a decade of grieving, my only solace is that there is, in fact, justice in this universe. I believe with every fiber of my being that somewhere in the deepest, darkest and most painful catacombs of a Hell-like place, Riddle burns and suffers the agony he heaped on so many in life—if that's what he had—tenfold. Harry Potter and his friends have always been the beacons we needed to look to as we healed. In turn, we respect their privacy as their families grow. It is with that respect and their consent that I tell this story.

I have been preparing for this editorial since long before I took it on as my responsibility. On this, the tenth anniversary of the best and worst day of our lives, I offer not my words, but the words of the generals and soldiers who lead us to victory. From correspondence collected from old owls, parchments and letters, I record their candid experiences in the hope that they bring the internal peace we all so desperately crave.

For the seven days leading up to the celebration, I present the personal stories of seven heroes in their own words.


	2. I, Weasley

I, Weasley

As the patriarch of my family, I can say that we Weasley's unofficially adopted Harry Potter and then named Hermione Granger the moment they met our youngest son, Ron. Harry, of course was already famous in our world, although he had absolutely no idea why. Hermione, was just a normal, Muggle-born child, aside from being exceedingly bright and a fantastic student.

Harry's story was known, that at the age of one, he managed to stop the Dark Lord after his parents, Lily and James Potter were murdered right in front of him. Luckily for that poor one year old boy, who has now grown into the man we all knew he'd be, luckily he has no memory of witnessing such a horrid, horrid crime.

Molly and I thank Merlin every day for our son-in-law. To be fair, we're thankful for all of our children's spouses who each bring their own qualities to our family. However, as this is the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry's thoughts are decidedly absent from this article.

You see, when the editor of the Daily Prophet approached us about the possibility of submitting our thoughts for this ceremony, my family and I had a very serious debate as to whether or not we wanted to burden Harry with all of these old memories. In the end, Molly and I, along with our daughter Ginny, and Ron and Hermione, decided he'd already done enough for the wizarding world. That nothing further should be asked of him.

Before anyone gets upset because Harry's thoughts are missing, I'm going to tell you why we chose to exclude him. I'm going to share with you; some things that were never really shared with the public, things that I hope will help calm the public's need for information about our son-in-law. I offer this, only as a tool to help the rest of us heal.

The Killing Curses

Everyone knows it was the Killing Curse that gave Harry his world famous scar. Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort feared Harry was chosen by destiny to end him. Instead of waiting for time to show him whether or not this was correct, Riddle broke into the Potter's home in the dead of night, murdered Lily and James Potter simply because they stood between Riddle and their son, and then turned his wand onto a one year old child, Harry. Pure cowardice.

A minute later, Lily and James were dead, the Dark Lord was gone, and Harry was left with his scar. That was the first ever occurrence of a living being surviving a direct hit from a Killing Curse. It rebounded onto the Dark Lord, rendering him temporarily powerless, and well, you know the rest of that story.

Harry was whisked away from the magical world, and sent to live with his only living relatives: his mothers Muggle sister and her Muggle family. This family was not kind at all towards Harry; in fact, the way they raised him is considered child abuse even in the most lenient of places. How Harry grew up into that eleven year old boy I first met who was so unbelievably kind and brave, I'll never understand. He told me later, that getting on that train to Hogwarts for the very first time was the single happiest day of his life up to that point.

We found out later that the child had never celebrated a birthday or Christmas and that no one had ever read to him, or comforted him after a bad dream. Perhaps now you may understand why we Weasleys are so unbelievably protective of Harry. He didn't have the childhood you and I did, he was not raised in a house filled with love and laughter. How he can be who he is after coming from that, again I'll never understand.

So here, this boy who lived, the Chosen One, the boy who survived a killing curse. I have another bit of information that I know for a fact, no one knows outside of my family. Harry has survived not one, but two killing curses. Yes, that's correct, the night of the Battle of Hogwarts the Dark Lord managed to hit him again when they dueled, and again the spell didn't work.

That curse left a scar in his flesh too, much worse than the first one. My eldest son Bill, and his wife Fleur worked for almost three days on an unconscious Harry sprawled out on my kitchen table. It took every ounce of magic we could muster to stop that curse from killing him.

So, for the record, there is only one person, in the entire history of magic to survive the killing curse and he's done it twice.

Three little words.

I had the distinct pleasure of witnessing the first time anyone ever told Harry Potter that we was loved. It was on his nineteenth birthday, when our daughter Ginny professed her love for him. Harry's eyes glazed over and we all clapped when the two young adults hugged.

What we didn't realize is that Harry had no memory of ever being told he was loved. Of course Lily and James surely told him thousands of times in the first year of his life, but he has no memory of it. It was Molly who figured it out, shortly after we all went to bed, that that poor child had no idea he was loved so dearly. Those vile relatives who so called "raised" him never uttered anything even close to affection toward the boy.

He went the first nineteen years of his life without feeling loved and still turned out to be one of the most compassionate, selfless and caring men I have ever known. Molly and I made a point to make sure the boy never went another day without hearing those words from us. We watch him without our grandson James, and he makes sure that little baby boy knows that his father loves him dearly.

We nearly lost him.

This is probably the single biggest reason we Weasleys are so protective of Harry. After everything he gave to save us, everything he sacrificed and all of those countless times he thought about everyone before himself, when it was over, we almost lost him.

I mentioned the second Killing Curse, which nearly snatched the life right out of his body, but then there was the emotional scarring that needed to be sorted. For an entire summer, our only daughter Ginny and Harry quietly sifted through all of the emotions and experiences from the war. The nightmares were horrific for all of my children, especially Harry. For months and months following the end of the Dark Lord, our home couldn't go a single night without at least one child waking from a nightmare screaming in pure terror. Most of the time that was Harry.

Harry had been tormented by the Dark Lord, nearly unhinged. That and the additional pressure he puts on himself to help others in need, a lesser wizard would have crumbled under the strain. Thanks to Ginny, and their love for each other, they managed to get past all of the pain, but still I can see it in Harry's eyes some days, that he's back in his head beating himself up over the ones he couldn't save.

Molly and I have taken great pride in our two adopted children: Harry and Hermione. They have grown into skilled and compassionate adults and we couldn't be happier that they're in our family.

Especially for me, adopting two Muggle raised children, for those of you who don't know, I have huge fascination with all Muggle things, so they help accommodate my hobby with information and patiently answer my thousands of questions.

Hermione even has her own sport-something or other-vehicle, and she takes me for drives whenever I want.

In the end, Molly and I want this celebration to be a time for happy memories. Of course there will be tears for our lost son, Fred, and I for one am not looking forward to this event simply because I miss my boy so very much. However, Fred has gone to a better place, and as much as his mother and I miss him, he died fighting for what he believed in, and fighting to protect his family. We are very, very proud of Fred.

Every one of my children, every one of their spouses, and Molly and myself we were each awarded an Order of Merlin at some level for our actions during the second Wizarding War. Fred's order, awarded posthumously is displayed proudly above the fireplace in our home.

Fred was a good boy, a loyal brother, a fine wizard and a great businessman. We all miss him, but as I said he is in a better place. Molly and I must focus, during this celebration, on the son who needs us now, the one we can save.

I need the readers to understand, there may come a day when Harry opens up about what really happened with Tom Riddle. I have shared a few things, in the hopes that with this information, you will continue to give my family the privacy we request as our family grows and continues to heal. There may come a day when Harry is ready, but that day is not today.

For the time being, we will continue with the best therapy imaginable: A loving family, filled with smiling faces and children's laughter.

We are Molly and Arthur Weasley, and Harry Potter is our son.

Arthur Weasley  
Order of Merlin, Third Class  
Order of the Phoenix  
Ministry of Magic


	3. I, Alone

I, Alone

My mother still gives me grief about not graduating from Hogwarts. It took me four years to pluck up the nerve to shut her down by telling her it was Fred's idea to leave school early. Although that tactical 'low-blow' worked for a few weeks, in time, our clever mother found newer, more painful ways of exerting her will upon her children.

I remember the first day, the first twenty-four hour period, where I didn't think about Fred: my twin, my brother, my partner in life. Oh, it was years after the battle, but nevertheless it made me very, very sad. Those who knew Fred paid their compliments and condolences for years after he was gone. Somewhere along the road of my own recovery, the sadness replaced itself with the happier memories.

It's been a decade since that night, and I'm still struggling to put this all into words. It's not that the words are too painful, they're really not. I think it's because there just aren't words to describe the loss of a twin.

Both of my parents are alive, so I have no idea what it's like to lose a parent. Whether at the end of a long life, or taken away suddenly and far too early. I don't know that loss. My wife, thank Merlin is alive and well, so I have never had to bury a spouse, which I can only imagine how devastating it would be to lose your one true love. Additionally, our son is completely healthy and flourishing, so I have no frame of reference for losing a child.

I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone talk about the loss of a twin. Fred and I were the same person in so many ways, when he was gone, I struggled to define where he ended and I began. I remembered our life but began to struggle remembering things accurately, often confusing who exactly said what, or who exactly did what.

The loss for me was double, and as I finally say it out loud, I think my family may finally have their suspicions confirmed: I lost Fred, and in turn lost myself. I had no idea who I was without him; I could no longer remember who came up with the idea for the joke shop. We were so in each other's heads, that the memories became generic. I saw both sides of the conversation, from my perspective, and in turn also saw both sides of the conversation from his.

Fred and I were never the sort of twins who needed our own identity. We dressed the same because we liked being each other's twin. We impersonated each other simply to drive our mother mad, and everything we did, we did together for the laughs, for the sport of it, and frankly, because we really couldn't stand to be apart.

Fred was with Ron, Percy, Harry and Hermione when he died. He was with two brothers, and an adopted brother and sister who have since become family. He was not alone when he died, and yes he was with family, all four of them. But he wasn't with me, and I'm still furious about that. We never should've split up in the Battle of Hogwarts, never. You never split up, ever, especially when you're a twin. I'm so pissed, because it was my decision to split up, and I flipping knew it was a mistake the second I said it.

My thought, my guilt, was upon seeing our sister Ginny, who wasn't even supposed to be fighting, and our brother Percy, who only recently stopped being a prat; they were both fighting Death Eaters in the stairwell and I suggested that Fred and I split with them and help.

I jumped with Ginny, and the battle quickly took us up the stairwell, while Fred and Percy were pushed down. That was the last time I saw my twin alive. I'm haunted by that memory, of watching them disappear out of sight. Gone, forever.

So there it was he was gone. The Fred and Georgie Show's final performance and it was because of me. I've gone over and over this decision in my mind, and although I can't find any other solution, the decision to split up haunts me.

Fred and I were adults when he died, but we were still bachelors. Living together over the joke shop, just as we always had at our parents home. It's reasonable to assume both he and I would eventually have settled down and started our own separate families and our own separate lives. However, no amount of logic comforts me; I'm tormented by what should have been.

The George Weasley Recovery Plan Step 1: Fire Whiskey.

I think only my brother Ron really knew how much I was drinking those first two years after the battle. It started innocently enough, a glass here and there, a bunch of tears over what should have been, and then a few more glasses so that I could sleep.

Those of you who drink know what I mean when I say that it was never really sleep. Sadly one drink became five drinks, and the Fire whiskey to mixer ratio increased quite quickly. No one ever really picks up a bottle and says "I wanna be a lush," but that's what happens.

Quite quickly, I was staying home to drink. Missing family functions so that I could stay home and drink. Drinking is what I would have rather been doing. It still is, although my wife would split my skull if she ever smelled it on me.

That's the trick with alcohol; it numbs everything, even your own perception of what you are doing to yourself. I would skip out on family parties simply because I didn't want my family to question me about the bags under my eyes, or the state of my skin. Even when they did inquire, I'd play it off that I was working long hours in the joke shop. The reality, I would have rather stayed at home and drank, then visit with my dear family. Because they clearly didn't understand that I was totally fine, it was all of them who were wrong.

The George Weasley Recovery Plan Step 2a: Angelina.

What can I say of my wife? She saved me, we saved each other. I'm very proud of this, that during such a terrible time, we found each other. She came by the joke shop a few months after the battle, trying in her own way to move past the loss of Fred. We began spending time together, drinking and crying and comforting one another. As much damage as we did to ourselves during that first year, I still look back on that time and smile, in a very dark way.

We found in one another, kindred feelings of loss and torment. We would sit by the fire pounding Fire Whiskey, chain smoking cigarettes and telling the same stories over and over again. It felt really good to not be alone, so it was only natural that we began to fall for one another. I firmly believe that without my wife, I would have died a long time ago.

The alcohol made my heart numb, but having her in my life let me know that it was okay to feel, and okay to occasionally be happy. Eventually, we ran out of stories to tell but didn't want to stop spending time together. Angelina was basically living with me in my flat, sorry mum, the joke shop was doing okay at best, and what little profits we made funded enough Fire Whiskey to thoroughly drown our sorrows away.

The George Weasley Recovery Plan Step 2b: The Fred Weasley Dark Arts Defense Catalogue.

This was purely Angelina's idea. During the war, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes began supplying defensive items to family members, members of the Order of the Phoenix and members of Dumbledore's Army hiding out at Hogwarts. Once the war was over, Angelina took that idea to a whole new level.

Before we invented our first product, we named the entire collection after Fred. This gave us both a drive and determination to live on for Fred. We were driven to help others, those not capable of defending themselves against evil.

It really did start as a joke with Fred and I, but in time we came up with some really good stuff. To insert a shameless advertisement for the shop: We now offer everything from standard hex protection cloaks to full on professionally installed home protection charms, up to and including unplottable residences. All licensed and bonded through the Ministry of Magic.

Being focused on something for Fred, took the glass out of my hand. Spending more of my day sober, than drunk was interesting at first, but I got used to it. Angie's face began to show a smile more than not, and soon the joke shop was filled with laughter once again.

The George Weasley Recovery Plan Step 3: Fred Weasley, Junior.

My son was born on a Tuesday, and my brothers Bill, Charlie, Ron, and Harry took me out to celebrate. I realize much of this story has been about my struggle with alcohol, but by the time Fred Junior was born Angie and I had closed the book on our recovery. When Freddy was born, we had expanded the joke shop from Diagon Alley, to Hogsmeade, Saarlious, France, and Virginia, United States. We were no longer living above the shop in London and had bought both the larger London flat, and the ranch near my parents home.

In my opinion, and I think the opinion of my wife as well, that our son would be named after my twin, Fred, whom we both loved dearly. Children are amazing, and my boy is about to turn six. He absolutely cannot wait to go to Hogwart's like his older cousins. His mother and I tell him about his uncle, and about all the things we used to do at school. Toned down of course, he is only five after all.

As I finish up this piece for the Prophet, I look up from my quill and see my son playing with a toy wand on the floor in front of the fire. He's waiting for me to start a game of Exploding Snap, but knows I wouldn't dare with his mother in the next room. I look at this child and his mother, and wonder how bad it almost was.

All those years wasted drinking, because I couldn't feel anything, because my heart had gone numb.

It took my wife to show me that my heart was not numb, it was broken.

My name is George Weasley, and I solemnly swear I am up to no good.

George Weasley  
Order of Merlin, Third Class  
Dumbledore's Army  
Weasley's Wizard Wheezes


	4. I, Gryffindor

I, Gryffindor

People say I'm a Gryffindor because of my "reckless courage," my inability to tolerate injustice, and because, as my wife is so often tested, I'm rather short-tempered. Being outspoken or daring, although qualities clearly common to the house of Gryffindor are not necessarily a requirement for admittance. The Gryffindors from my time at school would passionately argue that having a "talent for trouble" should be immediately added to the list of required traits, but in the end such talent is not always the best decision for all situations.

I advocate the equality of all living things, and I firmly believe that if you are in a situation or position where you are able to stop inequity or merely stand up for someone, you are compelled and obligated to do so, even when no one else dares. I do everything in my power to keep the people I care about safe and secure, and would not hesitate to die for someone whom I love. These are the dramatic aspects of my house, but as a professor parents send me their children not only to educate, but to protect from harm. School, any school, Muggle or magical, is a sanctuary of learning and growth and should be encouraged and protected at all times. Ten years ago, our school was made unsafe, and for all the reasons above, myself, my fellow Gryffindors and students from other houses with Gryffindor qualities stood tall against the greatest evil in the history of magic.

Dumbledore's Army was created to fight the injustice circulating around evils attempt to gain power. As children we saw it, we saw it plain as rain. Confused and baffled, we couldn't understand why others didn't see it too. Well we know now that they did see it, but for reasons that escape me even to this day, they chose not to act. They hid safely in their homes, behind veils of pure-blooded racism, and let the world nearly burn simply because they were too afraid to break the status-quo.

Those witches and wizards, from Government or the private sector who were too lazy, too scared or just too uninterested to fight, your obligation to protect children was passed on to children. There, I said it. You made children fight because you were too afraid. You were afraid of breaking tradition, afraid of being different, afraid of getting hurt or just downright afraid of the loss of worldly possessions and gold. I have one thing to say: shame on you. A child standing in your stead; shame on you!

Shame on you.

Here's a little known fact. We didn't create Dumbledore's Army to overthrow the Ministry, as it was said in the trial of Former Undersecretary Delores Umbridge. Albus Dumbledore didn't even know of our existence until we were caught. Being the ever noble headmaster he was, Dumbledore took the blame knowing the punishment would transfer away from the students and on to him. He chose to protect us, even when he'd done nothing wrong. That was a fantastic Gryffindor trait displayed by one of the most famous Ravenclaw's of all time.

Dumbledore's Army gave us all friendships and a sense of belonging many of us had never experienced. Together we learned how to defend ourselves against the dark arts because Delores Umbridge felt it was unnecessary to teach practical skills since You-Know-Who obviously wasn't back.

I disarmed my first ever wand in Dumbledore's Army, I learned to shield the people I care about, and fend off unwanted spells. I learned that every wizard or witch is compelled to learn these skills regardless of their future profession. As a professor myself, and a staff coach for the Hogwarts dueling club, it is my charge to pass on what we learned as children to your children. Every member of the Hogwarts staff has taken an oath to protect your children, and that means that not only do we protect them, but we teach them to protect themselves. That's right, there is NO ONE out there right now, that we know of. No one is coming to attack the school, but we still teach, because this is a school, and school is for learning.

Shame on you.

I can see the owls coming to my office already. Howlers and cursed parchments because in this day and age it's so much easier to send off a snotty letter than to take the five minutes to come and see what your children are learning. If you can't afford the teaspoon of floo powder, send me an owl and I will send you a port-key so that you can take an active role in your child's education.

I have been a Gryffindor all of my magical life, and I must confess I did engage myself in "pointless heroics" as a child. Intemperance in youth is common for Gryffindor males. As critics of Gryffindor house love to point out, some of us can be excessively bold and dramatic. If one of your children is cruel, rude or hurtful, while everyone else tolerates them, Gryffindors will call out the offending child in front of everyone and perhaps make a public fool out of them while doing so. Gryffindors also have been known to flaunt their bravery by metaphorically dipping toes into dangerous situations as their friends watching scream "get down!" or "what if you get hurt?!"

Did anything I just said even make a dent? We are here to celebrate ten years since the Dark Lord, yet all of the conditions that existed the last two times he reached for power, exist yet again. I'm begging parents to take part in their children's education. Become involved; visit the school, some see a quidditch match.

Although Gryffindors are usually favored, there are plenty of negative qualities to match the positive qualities. For example, many Gryffindors, myself included are probably the most opinionated people I know, and in an argument can come off as pushy and hurtful even though that's never the intention. We seldom think before we speak, and on many occasions rely on our emotions and "our gut feeling" to guide us, rather than logic and reason. Gryffindors feel responsible to save and protect everyone in need, and if we fail to do so remorse and guilt will eat us alive. In turn we sometimes come off as overly intense because we hate wishing we had done something more after the opportunity has passed.

This is why I teach, because I'm a Gryffindor. It means nothing to stand in front of someone and protect them when in reality I could have merely taught them to protect themselves. Regardless of house, I teach everyone, because no one is just one house.

Although I'm surely a Gryffindor, I do have many Ravenclaw qualities. I value intelligence, originality, and wit. A lot of my friends could have probably been sorted into Ravenclaw, as I enjoy being around intelligent and creative people. My Ravenclaw tendencies are probably due to my parent's being very good Ravenclaws, as they always strived for academic excellence on their way to becoming Aurors for the Ministry.

Although many Gryffindors would deny that they have any Slytherin traits, I must admit that we do possess a few Slytherin qualities. Gryffindors can be ambitious, clever, resourceful, and natural leaders, but that's where our similarities to the snakes end. Having a bit of Slytherin in you is good if you're a mischievous Gryffindor, since being clever and resourceful in your endeavors will help you succeed and more importantly rarely get caught.

I do love the underrated Hufflepuffs, but I could never fit in with those folk. My wife is a fantastic Hufflepuff, but I am far too lazy, impatient, and apathetic to be one of The Badgers.

Ultimately, all that I as a Gryffindor want is to do what I know to be right, protect those whom I can protect, and most of all be forever wild.

So, to all of you who don't know exactly how to celebrate the upcoming anniversary, you can start by understanding the mistakes that were made in our past. Whether you were too busy to notice, too self-righteous to care, or just too focused on your bloodline to do what's right, now is your chance.

We celebrate the children, teachers, and ordinary people who sacrificed everything for peace. We celebrate that Hogwarts School is still a free place where all magical children are welcome to attend and learn. We celebrate, that one day these sacred halls will be graced with continued generations of Patil's, Weasleys, Lovegoods, Changs, Finnegan's, and thank Merlin, Longbottoms.

We celebrate the new generations of Potters, Thomas's, Grangers, and Abbotts. My friends, the senior members of Dumbledore's Army, their task has been done for almost a decade. Now we bring our children into this world, we teach them, we raise them, so that if one day, evil should ever return, a new generation of Gryffindors will know just what to do.

My name is Neville Longbottom, and if the readers of this article have any issue with anything I've said please feel free to send me an owl at Hogwarts School. Letters addressed to the Head of Gryffindor House will find me promptly. Oh, and I do recommend you owl in lieu of paying a personal visit. People not affiliated with Dumbledore's Army have an incredibly difficult time finding my office.

Neville Longbottom  
Order of Merlin, Second Class  
Dumbledore's Army  
Head of House Gryffindor


	5. I, Loony

I, Loony

Back in school, the other students called me "Loony" Lovegood. I'll admit that I said some rather odd things and professed belief in non-existent magical creatures. Oh, who am I kidding? Very little I had to say made much sense back then and there's no such thing as a Crumple-horned Snorkack! In truth, my mother died in front of me when I was nine years old, leaving me no other influence in my life beside my father. Without her influence, poor Daddy retreated further and further into the ominous shadows of a detached reality. In other words, he rejected standard reality and replaced it with his own. As an impressionable 10-year-old, I had no choice but to follow him into that unrealistic world. Honestly, together we found a small amount of peace on our ridiculous adventures. Based on that behavior, I was nicknamed "Loony" because everyone thought I was as mad as my father.

I never really had many friends before Dumbledore's Army. Nor had I ever displayed any practical skill with a wand. Daddy and I believed Harry Potter when most of the world did not, but I didn't join the DA to defend myself or support some righteous cause. I certainly didn't join because I had this pressing need to fight. I joined, quite simply, for the friends, and to belong to something. When I signed my name on Hermione's parchment I knew we were just kids trying to help. I knew nothing would ever come from something as ridiculous as a student army.

The first time the Dark Lord touched my skin I wet my pants. I had felt Crucio from both of the Carrows, Peter Pettigrew, and even Bellatrix Lestrange took a turn. I have to say that curse from the Dark Lord's wand hurt far worse than the others. Pettigrew's almost tickled in comparison.

I spent almost twelve weeks as the Dark Lord's prisoner in the wine cellar of Malfoy Manor. Twelve weeks in that dark, dank, festering place. Where every step on the floor over my head was surely someone on their way downstairs to hurt me. Every creek of the floorboards, every muffled laugh, and every apparition noise all twisted my spine with debilitating fear as easily as twirling pasta with a fork and spoon.

If I wasn't mad before becoming his prisoner, that experience certainly erased any doubt. The mind tends to wander off to an undiscovered place when the body is slowly killed by hunger. It's only so long that a human being can tolerate bone-chilling cold before something inside the brain just snaps, and the tenuous grasp on reality vanishes like a popping soap-bubble.

The first time I ate wood, I was sure conditions couldn't possibly get any worse for me and the other prisoners of Malfoy Manor. But in comparison, I'd much prefer eating wood to dirt. Dirt, even in the driest of mouths turns to mud and well-that's just difficult to chew, let alone swallow. I could gnaw on a decent-sized shard of wood pulled from the wall for hours, because it offered the satisfaction of a meal with enough mass to actually fill a cavernous stomach.

Passing the time, in that cellar, was the real torture and the resulting damage far exceeded anything even Crucio from the Dark Lord could do. I tried to keep the conversations going, to keep everyone's spirits up, but after a few days encouraging words choked in my throat. Depression and despair were juvenile emotions we all felt at the beginning, but as time went on the real cancer consuming our souls, was hope.

One by one, each of us, lost hope. It doesn't matter who, or what order, but one after another we all learned a startling truth-the last ounce of hope cannot be taken away. Hope is funny like that, the last juicy morsel of a positive outcome must be abandoned to truly be hopeless. There, stuck in that cellar, each of us had to completely give up. One does not lose hope, like one loses a quill; it is not misplaced. One does not lose hope, like one loses a loved one; it is not taken from you. You have to cast that last drop of hope from your mind, your heart, and your soul. I banished hope from my conscious, and that was the day the Dark Lord finally beat me. He made me surrender, and I did so freely and willingly. That was his greatest power.

When we trained in the DA, we learned the spells that repeatedly saved our lives. Harry taught us to disarm, and to stun. We summoned, levitated, body-bound, silenced and blasted each other month after month and I will admit that such knowledge was both blessing and curse.

The battle in the Department of Mysteries filled our heads with confidence as we watched each of our spells not only connect, but connect successfully in live combat. The Dark Lord's notorious Death Eaters bit off a tad more than they realized when we followed Harry's order to engage. Our defenses held against some of the most feared names, and I just don't think the Death Eaters were used to their targets defending themselves. Surviving that fight, I really began to believe, and that was when I first became infected with hope.

We were excited, those of us who were there. Thrilled even, to see that our skills really could compare. We were too young to see what really happened in the Department of Mysteries, and it wasn't until the cellar in Malfoy Manor that I finally realized that that night in the Department of Mysteries was not a victory for us, but a defeat and how crushing that defeat really was.

I agree the Death Eaters weren't ready for combat, but they adapted quickly. Harry and Neville were both completely neutralized by the prophecy. Neville was cursed and Harry wouldn't leave him, so in one broad sweep the Death Eaters took out the two possible subjects of the Dark Lords mysterious prophecy.

Those who have met Hermione Granger Weasley know she is about as gifted as they come. Let me just say, the sixteen year old version of her was just as potent and lethal as fully grown witch herself. Muggleborn or not, the Death Eaters knew not to cross her wand. They ganged up on her, and she was unconscious before even casting a spell.

The same goes for Ginny Weasley Potter. Whether by intent or accident, the Death Eaters took her out, thus eliminating the threat of first Weasley witch in seven generations. I heard her ankle snap, and no matter how hard she tried to stand on it, Ginny was helpless.

We fought and fought, and thank Merlin the Order of the Phoenix arrived when they did. At last the blessed Order collided with the Death Eaters in open combat. I remember thinking how important this battle was for the Order, and the resistance. Finally, and tangible assessment of our chances.

Nymphadora Tonks ended up in the hospital. Minister Shacklebolt (then an Auror) was defeated, as was Alastor Moody. A flash of green light from the wand of Bellatrix Lestrange took Sirius Black from us. Professor Dumbledore came in to clean up the Death Eaters who were unanimously victorious up to that point.

Yes, we children were excited and filled with that cancerous hope, but we were all so easily defeated by better fighters. Dumbledore crossed wands with the Dark Lord and the Dark Lord lived to tell the tale. So much for being the only wizard the Dark Lord ever feared.

There is a difference between being strong at magic and being a good fighter. If I had to rank out the strongest combat wizards and witches at the time I would say it would be this. Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Sirius Black, Bill Weasley, Minerva McGonagall, Nymphadora Tonks, Kinglsey Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody, Harry Potter and then Hermione Granger Weasley. We knew at some point someone was going to have to fight the Dark Lord. Dumbledore couldn't finish him, which was utterly crushing. Snape's allegiance was not known at that time. Sirius, an extremely powerful fighter, was dead. Tonks, Kingsley and Mad-Eye were all bested in battle. Harry and Hermione were still under age and vastly inexperienced. Of the ten strongest who were willing to stand up against evil, we were left with a clever curse breaker and the head of Gryffindor house. Subconsciously on that day, we all began to lose hope. Even if we dared not admit it.

When Harry and Ron rescued us from the Malfoy cellar, I'm not really sure I can describe or identify the emotion of that moment. I went through a phase of intense nightmares, but thanks to the same very close friends I had never known before, I got through. Mister Olivander was kind enough to craft my new wand, and once I held it between my fingers, I began to understand our struggle. It became so unbelievable obvious, I'm still stunned we didn't see it before.

We weren't supposed to win. There I said it. We weren't supposed to win, the Dark Lord and his followers were superior to the resistance in every possible way. That was the trick, the moment unfathomable clarity. We weren't fighting to win. We were fighting not to lose. Children leading ordinary citizens against the army of the apocalypse. Once that pressure lifted from our shoulders, the mission became only about the next step. Situations are so much more manageable when small like that.

As I close, I will share something that just happened to me not three days ago. Someone, well two people tried to mug me. A witch and a wizard followed me into the Bakara Marget, which is one of the States' many Diagon Alley type places. These two couldn't have been older than eighteen, and for some reason they marked me as an easy target. I will tell you, I haven't dueled since the Battle of Hogwarts.

The shock on that witch's face when her wand went soaring into the air was interesting. I am not sure if the wizard was just incapable of a quality shield charm or if my stunning spell was just that much more powerful. I felt bad for him though, I heard him hit the brick wall behind him, ouch! That silly little witch had a Dementor for a pet, and when she summoned it onto me I'm sure she knew the fight was over. My patronus hit the creature so hard that it too didn't get up. I'm not sure if I knew a Patronus Charm could stun or perhaps injure them. Again I felt bad stunning the witch, especially when she was wandless, but I had my niece with me, and well, attacking me with a family member in tow was unwise.

I live in a life of academia, having tasted too much combat in my life. However, it was nice to see I still had the skills Harry taught me. Those two thugs are still in the hospital, maybe I'll go visit them before I travel back home for the celebration. It'll be so nice to see everyone.

Thank you, Harry.

My name is Luna Lovegood Scamander, but no one has called me Loony in ages.

Luna Scamander  
Order of Merlin, Second Class  
Dumbledore's Army  
Salem's School for Witches, United States of America


	6. I, Harpy

I, Harpy

I'm a Harpy through and through. I bleed emerald green and gold, I always have and I always will. Having been born the first witch in seven generations of Weasleys, it's perfectly acceptable for me to support the only all-witch team in a wizard-dominated league. It is a wizard's world, after all…or so they say.

Signing my contract right out of Hogwarts brought its share of press—conferences, demands for interviews, and the ever-oppressive tabloid speculation. Through seven years of playing every match, seven years as an all-star, and six years of playoffs, including four championships, I answered some of the most ridiculous questions any journalist could ever ask.

It amazed me the kind of knowledge the public so desperately craved once the press learned to not ask me about my husband, my family, my friends or anything pertaining to Tom Riddle. Reporters asked me about my superstitions, my fears, my strategy and even my temper. I must say—or should I say confess—that it's so hard to be gracious in victory, and not appear completely devastated in defeat. That said I'm retired now, so I can say exactly what I feel and let the press be damned.

The truth is, hell-yes it felt good fly circles around the French Quiberon Quafflepunchers in the rematch after the pasting they gave us in a so-called friendly pre-season exhibition match. I mean, that first match may not have counted for-or-against in the overall season standings, but the rematch certainly did. By the close of the regular season, the Harpies were locked in as the top seed for the playoffs, but France's team of social Neanderthals enjoyed no such guarantee. Their playoff hopes rested on a decisive defeat of the Harpies, and I would have rather died than give them even a chance of owning us twice in one season.

You see, as with any athlete, Muggle or Wizard, professional or amateur, there are defeats and there are losses, and there are victories and there are wins. Defeats are the poundings a team takes for poor overall performance, but losses hurt more because of the fine work involved that just wasn't quite enough. Losing by one goal or the simple catching of the Snitch is truly heartbreaking. Victories are the pounding a team gives due to the poor performance of the opposing team, but wins are the often more-appreciated glory, again because of the fine work involved from both teams.

Having been raised in a houseful of men—and rather competitive ones at that—my parents, in their infinite wisdom, taught us all that we should never gloat in victory and never be sore in defeat. As the sole female of seven rather bumptious siblings—well, six, not counting Percy—nobody had to learn that lesson more solidly than Yours Truly. Livid, I listened to the French players boast their superiority to the press before both matches, question my celebrity and loyalty to my team, and then have the unmitigated gall to question the caliber of our coaching and the validity of our sponsors. But worst of all—and I mean worst of all—they insulted our fans. I couldn't let that go, parental admonition or no, and neither could my sister Harpies.

Now, I'll admit that they beat us fair and square in the exhibition. I was rightfully penalized for a flagrant cobbing foul after I lost control of my temper and spent nine minutes on the ground in penance. To make matters worse, no sooner did my feet touch the ground when Gwenog Jones crashed into the short-post. She didn't wake up for almost twenty minutes and that was all the time the French team needed to rack up the score and grab the Snitch. The match was over before it started and we lost by almost four-hundred points—a sound victory for them and a crushing defeat for us. Of course, I could make excuses for it, but there are none that can outweigh the fact that seven arrogant French wizards spanked our derrieres rosy-red.

But then they crossed the line and attacked our gender. Publicly and repeatedly, they let loose such blatant sexist rhetoric that I had a hard time reading it without vomiting. As a team, we agreed to not respond to a single question regarding anything having to do with France or the French. Even my French sister-in-Law declared that the Quiberon team had gone too far. Quietly, we waited in hope for a rematch.

Near the end of the season, I can say now that there was a very brief discussion late in the match with Kansas City about throwing it. Obviously we didn't, but it was on all of our minds. If we lost, we would find ourselves in a four-way tie for the number-two seed, which would require some sort of sudden death match to sort out the bracket. Based on the exhibition, the Harpies would have had to travel to France to play on their home pitch. Now, I said we discussed it, but only briefly. Ultimately, the entire team agreed unanimously that we should play to win and let the Gobstones fall where they may. After all, if France wasn't good enough to survive their sudden death matches and advance on their own, then that was entirely their problem and we Harpies would send them our love from the playoffs.

The Harpies as the top seed secured a first round bye and we waited with baited breath for the match between Quiberon and Braga, knowing full well the victor drew the Harpies in Holyhead for the next round. The Harpies publicly supported Braga, even though deep inside we all wanted those arrogant Frenchmen to advance and face us. We all traveled to Portugal to witness first hand, our fate.

I really felt for Braga because the French showed up ready to fly. Braga didn't have a snowball's chance in a Dragon's cave. It was a slaughter, pure and simple, which meant Quiberon and Holyhead would face off in the next round. Instantly, the press converged and began asking a fresh new round of ridiculous questions pertaining to the scheduled rematch between the Harpies and the Quafflepunchers. As always, we answered their questions with poise and dignity; however, the French once again launched into their old cant, laded with sexism and character assassination.

Two reporters tried to interview me while I walked out to the pitch for the match. As a player, I hated that the league required interviews before, during and after matches. Not only were most of journalists annoying, the entire exchange was an exercise in frustration and distraction. It's infuriating to be sure, but as a fan, I have to admit I like the live commentary. Players have no choice, it's contractual: you will answer the questions without argument. So, while trying to focus on our strategy, I let the two morons calling themselves reporters ask me anything. I'm sure the determined look on my face said it all. I wanted payback more than anything else that day.

A few seconds later, I straddled my Firebolt and closed my eyes to focus my mind one last time. As a part of my pre-match ritual, I looked into the crowd where I found my husband and family. Harry and my brother Ron stared at me with Hell in their eyes—they knew the stakes involved and that this was more than just a match for the Harpies. My sister-in-law, Hermione, a bit of a feminist herself, sent me her support through her piercing gaze. They all knew a thrashing was in the offing.

I'm sure the readers were expecting some sort of story involving Tom Riddle. Well, I'll tell you this: as my feet left the ground and I took to the air, it was the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts that I fed not off my anger, but off my drive. I remember that feeling vividly. So many years before, when we children stormed the Hogwarts castle chasing down Riddle and his remaining Death Eaters, it was not rage in our hearts. Fighting to kill does not mean fighting to murder. We fought to stop him from destroying our entire world, and even as a child I could feel the difference.

Bellatrix Lestrange murdered at will, fighting my friends and me only to cause pain to those who loved us. When my mother stepped in to defend me again, Lestrange tried to kill solely to hurt those of us who would be so unbelievably lost without her. My mother, however, fought to protect the world from such wanton evil and perverse hatred. The end may have been a matter of semantics, but it does really come down to intent and one's internal mindset.

That's what those reporters asked me before I took to the air. They wanted to know my intentions and my mindset. I told them as I tell you now: my intentions were to play the most perfect match in the history of modern Quidditch and in turn, utterly humiliate everyone ever affiliated with the Quiberon Quafflepunchers. That's exactly how it played out, too! Take seven determined witches with a solid game plan and then stand in front of the press and say those seven determined witches with the solid game plan should be at home with a load of children in tow, not more than five feet from the kitchen. A wizard should know better!

Yes, the match went on for almost three hours before they even scored. Yes, I did actually score on a ricochet off of their Seeker's head and yes, that was intentional. We flew so fast it felt like we were holding on by our fingernails. Muggle fighter pilots call it 'attack speed' and we Harpies planned to fly at top speed for the entire match. We played physical with focused emotion. The Quafflepunchers' noses were broken and their lips and brows split open. We contested every single exchange, and made every inch of ground they wanted cost them dearly.

That match ended as the most-lopsided post-season match in the modern Quidditch era. We beat them at their own game—we played better, smarter, and faster.

I relished their broken hearts and silently applauded as their egos fell back to earth with a resounding crash. We never outwardly cheered or celebrated. It was all business. Hell, I never even raised an arm each time I scored. At the last whistle, we flew from the pitch without shaking hands, and although many scolded us for our lack of sportsmanship, it was our plan from the beginning to give Quiberon not one ounce of notice or validation.

Looking back, the Championship that season almost paled in comparison to that lone victory. The press asked their silly questions repeatedly, but there was something in my chest after the Championship that made it bittersweet. Even though I didn't know, officially or unofficially for that matter, some part of my soul knew I had just flown my last match at the professional level and I had gone out in a blaze of glory.

A week later, my husband and I announced that I was pregnant with little James and that I would be retiring from the Harpies. As passionately as I flew for all those years and loved every moment, I wasn't sad to leave. That final season, ending on top with such excitement, completely fulfilled any and all dreams I ever had involving a broomstick. I may bleed Harpies green and gold, but it had been far too long since a James Potter walked this earth. I said goodbye to Quidditch, but I have never missed it, not even for a second.

Seven years of living a dream in Holyhead, seven years of exciting victories and crushing defeats, seven years of rain and snow and playing in foreign countries, and—ha!—seven years of ridiculously annoying interview questions—through all of that, there's one question no one ever asked or dared to ask: not one reporter ever questioned that I am Harpy through and through.

Few people know that my husband, Harry, had been recruited to play Seeker before he took on the mantle of an Auror. One team romanced him and only one team tried to sign him. I don't think they ever knew how close Harry had come to signing on that all-important dotted line. After all those years of pain, who could blame him for wanting to play a game for the rest of his life?

Before Harry finally declined their offers, they did present him with one gift—his jersey. It's the only one in existence. He never wears it for more than a few hours at a time after it's been washed, and never outside the house.

My name is Ginevra Wesley Potter and I am a Holyhead Harpy through and through, but every night—every single night since I was seventeen years old, I have slept in my husband's red and orange number 7 Chudley Cannon's jersey.

Ginny Potter  
Order of Merlin, Second Class  
Dumbledore's Army  
Chaser, Holyhead Harpies (retired)


	7. I, Auror

I, Auror

I found just last weekend that my wife's grandmother is the exact same age as Queen Elizabeth. They're just a few months apart in age. I'd met this woman a time or two since the war, on the occasional Granger family gathering. She's a very charming woman who absolutely adores the queen. Last weekend I spent a few hours with Hermione's gran, sitting by a pool filled with Granger children trying to go margarita for margarita with a senior. I lost. Let's face it, it wasn't even close.

Her feelings about the queen are not political, they stem simply from the fact that she and the queen are the same age. For those of you who know little about the Muggle monarchy, the queen stepped into the crown very young in life following the sudden death of her king father. Hermione's gran shared knowledge I doubt anyone else at the party knew, about the queen's life, and children. She was incredibly knowledgeable which stemmed directly from the bond she felt based on their similar ages.

I know very little about the Muggle world, having been raised entirely in the magical world. I'm learning more, being married to a Muggle-born certainly helps. What I took from my conversation with this fine woman is the bond she felt with someone who she'd never met. She followed the queen all of her adult life, from clippings in the paper, radio and television and now even computers.

What does this have to do with the Battle of Hogwarts? Very little, but my job for the ministry is to understand patterns and motivation. And on the sunny day by the pool, I learned something about people. People need something to believe in, and something to hope for. I think I understand now why people buy me and my wife drinks everywhere we go. It's never the people our age, or adults younger than us who stop at our table, shake our hands and fill our glasses. It's folks my parents age, or in between. They look at us and smile, with the same looks that I see on my parents faces. I feel protected by their thanks. Much like the way Hermione's gran loves the special and intense connection she has with the queen, these elder witches and wizards treat us like their children. They ask about babies, and our work for the ministry in a way that sounds more protective than inquisitive. I enjoy these encounters immensely, as does my wife. We both feel warm and loved by their gratitude, and are very happy we could do our part. As a parent now, of a rambunctious toddler, I understand what they are feeling.

When we agreed to write these bits for the Daily Prophet we all still wanted to maintain our privacy. So without divulging anything that's going to make me have to sleep on the couch, I would like to address my part of this story to every witch or wizard who has passed the love of their family to my family simply because that's what parents do. No child can ever be loved too much.

They called us the Golden Trio, me, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. I'm not really sure where the name came from, but once the papers got hold of the name it stuck for all time. We were just kids then, and I'm certainly comfortable enough to admit that we had no idea what in the hell we were doing. The three of us set out on our mission to stop Riddle with a vague plan, a few clever ideas and enough nerve to really make things interesting. I didn't know exactly how much we didn't know back then, but now I know it was quite a bit.

In fact, the total tonnage of what we didn't know could fill volumes and volumes of books. It was really just us. Harry, a young wizard marked for death, with a secret mission from Professor Dumbledore. Hermione and I, we were there to help Harry, in any way that we could.

These ten years have changed the three of us quite a bit. We are all married now, with growing families and new mouths to feed. Shortly after the battle, our Trio became a Quad as my sister Ginny became an inseparable part of our group. There's been recent public speculation as to who would have been a better match to Harry Potter: Ginny or Hermione. Although I know better than to comment on such tripe, I will say this about my sister. She really did complete what we were missing, so that's as good of a place to start as any.

Ginny.

Plain and simple, Ginny just gets Harry. She gets him, she understands him, and she's the perfect complement to Harry's life. It really does take a special witch to match up with such a notorious wizard. Harry, through no fault of his own, has been famous his entire life, and let me tell you, being a part of Harry's life does present a series of challenges and opportunities many people rarely see. Ginny has always been the perfect balance for such a unique wizard. She helps him deal with the pressures of his life and his continued work combatting evil. She knows when to let him vent, and when to shut him down in his tracks. Ginny's neither stars struck nor naïve, and handles the business of their lives with sheer class and diplomacy.

Ginny knows a bit of the celebrity life as well from her time with Dumbledore's Army and of course her time with the Harpy's. Regardless of what the world is asking of the Potter's inside their home it's just Harry, Ginny and James. She takes care of both of her men, and they take care of her.

My job for the ministry is tactics, and I'll tell you this: Don't you get between Ginny and her men, that tactically speaking, is suicide.

Hermione.

How do I write about the great love of my life without getting completely off subject? Let me say this, and I'm sure Harry would agree, without Hermione, Harry and I wouldn't have lasted a week. Hermione was the brains behind our mission. She drove home the logic, helped push our brains along when we were getting stumped and hands down figured out much of the mysteries surrounding Tom Riddle and his connection with Harry. Obviously, much of that detail will not be coming out in this article, but rest assured there was plenty of stuff we needed to figure out.

Harry needed to stay focused on his task, on moving the chess pieces around the board to ensure we could checkmate Tom Riddle. That was his job. Hermione's job was to help him with the information, to help him come up with the best plan. She did this freely and without reservation, because it was her job to think of all of the little things he was too focused to see.

Hermione stuck with Harry even when I couldn't. A shame I will carry with me to my grave. People have no idea who hopeless things got for us, or just how low we really were. Me especially, I spent much of the first part of that year on the run injured. Hermione managed to nurse me back to health with no supplies or potions while continuously researching and planning. Regardless of how desperate things became for us, Hermione never wavered.

Brightest witch of our age, obviously. Toughest witch of our age, indeed.

My part.

As has been reported I left Harry and Hermione during the mission. My injury, and feelings of imagined betrayal are the excuses, but the reality is that I was broken inside. I grabbed my bag, gave a Hermione an ultimatum thank Merlin she didn't accept, and then I left. I spent the next five weeks trying to find my way back to them.

I did find my way back into the group, and quickly started doing my part. The part I hadn't been doing up to that point. Hermione was the brains, Harry was the sole, and it was about time I started doing my part as the heart.

My wife is very forgiving and incredibly compassionate. My journey to help end Riddle, showed me the fully grown witch standing before me. I began to fall in love with my wife on our mission. I think, I'd been falling in love with her for years, but I'm just so thick it took nearly a decade. The final piece of understanding that unlocked my heart forever for this brilliant Muggle-born with crazy brown hair came when we were captured by Death Eaters.

From that dark cellar I listened to my wife being tortured with Crucio. I'd never felt so helpless in all of my life. It was then, and only then, that I learned what rage was. Hermione screamed and screamed but never gave up even a drop of information.

It's interesting; rage has such a powerful grip on the mind. It's almost like a python; it can squeeze out all other thought and suffocate all other emotion until everything is dead except for the rage. I'm not talking about anger, I'm talking about rage. I can feel it. Right here in my chest, like it's going to burst. I feel like I want to scream, right now matter of fact. Ten years nearly to the day since my wife fell under that wand, and I still feel that rage.

If I may say something: I don't think the problem is that I was captured; it's that I felt helpless. I was injured in the beginning, I couldn't do anything. And when I finally had a chance to do something what I did was let my best friends down. We made a promise, I made a promise, and that was to see this through to the very end, and I hadn't.

Call it whatever you want, about getting what you deserve. I left them, I broke my word. It doesn't matter what the Ministry did, or even what Riddle did, because every day that we remained apart is a day that I'd broken my promise. Then Harry and I were in the cellar while Hermione was upstairs being tortured. We were not together, and once Harry and I got out of that cell the rage in my heart ensured that we'd never be apart again.

The Prophet asked me to write something, maybe because they think I don't have anything to say, but I do. I chose to become an Auror to serve, and to protect. This wasn't a lifelong dream of mine, I decided pretty late in my education but it was the time on the run that really sold it for me. It's not that I enjoy it, sometimes it's quite hard. It's hard on my family, it's hard on my wife, and it's definitely hard on me, but I remember hearing my wife scream, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let that happen to anyone else.

In closing, for those of you who're curious, the state of our family is: fantastic. There are about a thousand new babies running around, all of my brothers and sisters are happy and successful in their own ways, and my parents have enough grandchildren to spoil to keep them happy for quite some time.

I wear the uniform not because I'm good at it, or because I haven't lost a game of chess in years. I don't wear the uniform because of Harry, or because I like weeklong stakeouts eating greasy takeout food and not holding either of the ladies who occupy my heart. I fought; we fought, so that we'd have a chance; that our children would have a chance.

My name is Ron Weasley, and I wear the uniform because I can't be trusted to dress myself. Thanks for that suggestion Hermione, classic.

Ronald Weasley  
Order of Merlin, First Class  
Dumbledore's Army  
Executive Officer, Department of Magical Law Enforment


	8. I, Mudblood

I, Mudblood.

Yes, I begin my part with a derogatory slur, and for that I apologize. There's never any excuse to use such an offensive word, but I really mean it when I say I'm quite proud to be what I am, Muggle-born.

Before I begin, as readers read the last line of my husband's editorial, you have to understand the context because I did say exactly what he wrote. Ron was tormenting himself trying to finish up before the deadline and he was really getting worked up about it. This is supposed to be a celebration, not a funeral. My comment to Ron was made in passing, while chasing our daughter, as a reminder he needn't take himself so seriously all the time.

Now it's time for my editorial; my first public statement not pertaining to work since immediately following the battle. So what can I tell you about myself, or about this anniversary?

Did you know that my husband thinks it's hysterical when I use profanity? I'm told it's the most unnatural sight ever. When I curse I have to painfully squeeze the word out of my mouth and questionably place it into a sentence. It sounds dirty, not because of the context of the word, but the immediately following awkward silence and regrettable look that flashes across my face followed immediately by my husband and our friends dying with laughter. I feel uncomfortable when I try to curse, probably because I don't feel like I have enough 'street cred' to deserve the certain foul adjectives, and because some bad words I honestly just don't understand. Ron can rattle off a string of expletives that will stop you dead in your tracks in pure awe of such linguistic mastery. One day we're sure to have a row when his vocabulary passes on to our daughter. However, no matter how I string together a sentence it still sounds and feels like I'm calling someone "A big giant poopie head."

I wish I could site some moral or ethical reason why I don't curse very often. Yes, I'm an educated witch, and I like to think my parents raised me better than that, but really, I don't curse simply because I'm rubbish.

I bet everyone reading is stunned that this is the direction I chose for my editorial. Well, it's my editorial and, no offense; I can write what I want. You see, that's exactly why we all fought so many years ago, for this freedom right here.

_Oh, here we go. Here comes Hermione's feminist agenda! _

But I'm not a feminist, if anything I'm an equalist. I believe in equality for everything, and everyone. That's what we stood up against; people trying to segregate the magical world. They said I couldn't be a witch, because of who my parents are. Well I am a witch, and I love it.

Two witches came to visit me at the Ministry around the time of my engagement to Ron while I was still with Magical Creatures. They made their appointment and showed up in their business robes with their hyphenated last names on their business cards. They wanted to recruit me into their militant feminist organization hoping to capitalize on my recent celebrity to help further their cause. I laughed them out of my office after about thirty minutes.

So, on a side note, I just read that last paragraph aloud with a few carefully placed expletives added in for my own benefit. Well, right now my husband Ronald and our toddler Rosie are rolling on the floor laughing hysterically because apparently that's just the funniest thing ever.

_And now my toddler has repeated that word from my own mouth. Ron, literally, is going to pass out from laughter. I'm just going to lay my head on the desk for a minute, until I can find a way to make this 'his' fault._

That didn't take long, back to the militant witches. Their claptrap about my responsibility to witches everywhere was pure comedy to me. They said I should've hyphenated my last name to maintain my identity. I know who I am, and what's wrong with taking my husband's name? I adore my last name, and adore everything about being a Weasley. I'm proud beyond words to be associated with Molly and Arthur Weasley, and everyone else in my family for that matter. I'm still my father's daughter even though my name has changed. Why would I not want to be associated with people whose homes are filled with love, who are brave, selfless and kind? Who would dare slap the title of "Weasley Wife" on any of us? We're educated and successful, there's a quittich champion and a tri-wizard champion to boot, successful business owners, and members of the ministry, all with enough Order's of Merlin to sink a battleship.

The truth is that I like being a witch, and I like being a girl. I fight for what I believe to be right, and debate sensitive issues before the entire legislature, but I still enjoy my frivolous girl moments. I love shopping, spending time with my sisters-in-law, and yes, I do love my shoes!

_Does the quality of my footwear really have anything to do with the potency of my mind or my wand?_

I love being a wife, and I especially love being a mother. I never saw myself ever moving beyond the level of "culinary disaster" pertaining to exploits in the kitchen. It was never really a skill I felt like I needed to learn, that is until my husband became an Auror.

I didn't learn to cook because it's 1941 in my house, and I certainly didn't learn to cook because my husband was too busy to do it (which he was those first few years). I learned to cook because my husband needed me to. Auror training is physically exhausting, and never in my life had I seen someone so physically drained by his work. Ron would come home and literally pass out in the fireplace. His magic would sputter, and after he splinched himself apparating while exhausted I knew I had to step in.

I enjoyed this process immensely, for one because I got to buy a whole bunch of new books and learn something new. My husband's favorite food is food, but something was missing in his diet, and it was affecting his magic. It was a puzzle we needed solve together. I learned about energy and dietary science, in fact, much of what Ron and I discovered together is now taught in the Auror Academy.

I learned about proteins, carbohydrates and fat. For months we tried new foods together that were based on sustaining the high energy demands of Ron's profession. Once we would find a dish that met all of the nutritional requirements for his line of work, we would then work on making it more appetizing. Ron bought me this beautiful recipe box with my initials engraved on it. For the first three years of our marriage, several nights a week we'd work together in the kitchen perfecting meals, and when we both agreed that we'd found a healthy dish Ron would say "Put it in the box!" We'd celebrate with a big glass of wine and then spend the next few minutes naming the dish. Those were fun times, and not only did those recipes help with his Auror duties, they were a proverbial gold mine of energy when you're pregnant.

I enjoy feeding my husband, even if some of the dishes are revolting to me. I enjoy knowing we figured this problem out together, and I especially enjoy taking care of someone who I care about deeply. It's not about being an Auror's wife, or that I need his income. I need him, our daughter needs him. I need him to be safe and come home to our family and I do my part to ensure that happens.

I'm a girl and I like doing girl things. I like dressing up, and I enjoy the compliments on my appearance. It's my choice to do what I please with my life, and I choose to be a witch, a wife and a mother in whatever order I feel like at the time.

I'm sure I could have made it through my entire pregnancy on my own. I'm absolutely sure, and I'm absolutely sure it would have been tremendously awful. Now, those militant witches who invaded my office would surely scoff at my cooking story, but I don't understand how I set back witches rights but helping my husband.

I mean, what's the point of even being married if you aren't there for one another. Yes he could have made his own food, but I'm pretty solid on the research thing, and can be pretty creative when it comes to science, so why would I not help?

No one emasculated my husband when he sat over me in the bathtub when I was nine months pregnant. I was miserable! I'd retained enough fluid I'm stunned there wasn't a water shortage. It was July and I just couldn't get cool. My skin was on fire and of course you can't use any magic or potions when you're pregnant, so I just sat there, a whale in the tub and sobbed for hours and hours. And he sat there right with me, and poured cool water over my skin from a pitcher and wiped away my tears. Then when that episode had passed, he helped lift me out of the tub, rubbed lotion all over my skin and put me to bed underneath several fans.

_Pretty good bloke, that Ron._

Do you think any of his friends would have said a word about him helping his wife when she really needed it? Of course not, just like no one would dare say a word about his masculinity because he reads princess stories to our daughter. So how am I some of sort of disgrace to witches because I do the same thing?

Ten years ago we fought for what is right, that all magical beings are equal and free. I'm a modern witch, who likes shoes, making dinner for my husband and a good book by a smoldering fire. Yes, we do have a house elf that tends to our home because our lives are so hectic, and yes, she is paid for her services. I believe that what we fought for was the right to choose for ourselves. Whether pure-blood, half-blood or Muggle-born, magic is a gift, and everyone should be able to live their lives the way they choose. I know I certainly am, and I will continue to fight to ensure that others do as well.

My name is Hermione Granger Weasley, wife to Ronald, mother to Rose, and in about eight months, mother to child number two.

_Yep, that just happened! Top that, boys!_

Hermione Weasley  
Order of Merlin, First Class  
Dumbledore's Army  
Undersecretary to the Minister, Ministry of Magic


End file.
